A Scandal in Bermuda
by SilentWhisper06
Summary: -spoilers for A Scandal in Belgravia-, set directly afterwards. John can't quite get Irene's words out of his head and it's only during an impromptu trip to Bermuda that he works out why. Rated M for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: A Scandal in Bermuda **

**Rating: M for swearing/lemons in later chapters **

**Description: -spoilers for A Scandal in Belgravia-, set directly afterwards. John can't quite get Irene's words out of his head and it's only during an impromptu trip to Bermuda that he works out why.**

* * *

><p>"Well, who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but I'm <em>not<em> actually gay!"

His words seemed as empty as the warehouse they stood in. Irene looked him straight in the eye, her gaze narrow and unwavering. It appeared as though she was looking right through him.

"Well I _am_. Look at us both..."

Her tone was mocking now, and all he could muster in response was a small, non-committal snort of laughter underneath his breath. What did that mean? If she _was_ gay, which he highly doubted, how could she possibly be so apparently infatuated with his flatmate? Was it all an act?

Before he had time to give it more thought, an unmistakeably familiar moaning sound echoed through the room and both of them jumped to attention. The beep of a mobile phone and the sound of footsteps followed suit. Sherlock had followed him. He moved forward to run after his flatmate but Irene's hand stalled him.

"I don't think so. Do you?"

She meant the dinner, presumably. Before he could reply, she was walking away in the opposite direction, heels clacking relentlessly at the floor.

John stood there for a second, speculating about what she had said. Them _both_? He shook his head, running a hand through his hair, letting out an exhausted sigh. Irene confused him; there was something about her he just couldn't warm to. She clearly knew something that he didn't, but not in the mechanical and egotistical way that Sherlock always did, this was different, personal.

Whatever it was, it made him uncomfortable and he wanted nothing better than to get back to his flat and make a tea with an unhealthy amount of sugar. He turned in the direction of the door Sherlock had left from; presumably he'd want comforting now that his 'girlfriend' had just been harshly resurrected. And no matter what Irene said, he was not _jealous_. His fists closed and opened as he descended the stairs. No, his anger stemmed from her lack of emotion, her shameless treatment of Sherlock, the way he'd watched Sherlock suffer emotionally in the months after her death, the weeks of heart-breaking violin music seeping through the walls as he'd lain down to sleep. That was why he disliked her. He exhaled frustratedly, making his way determinedly back towards Baker Street. He had to check Sherlock was alright, that was the priority at hand.

* * *

><p>It was several months after the case had closed and Irene had escaped at Sherlock's hand, and John still found himself contemplating what she had said to him. Though she had predictably disappeared soon after Sherlock had heroically jumped to her aide, his flatmate seemed in high spirits, he'd only shot carelessly at his bedroom wall once that week and most of all, he was keen to find another case to solve.<p>

"Here's one - Right, serial murderer, leaves biblical symbols all over his victims bod-"

"Solved that one hours ago, another priest-turned-preacher. Texted Lestrade. Next."

John rolled his eyes and returned to scanning the page.

"Three men reported missing, post-it notes in their h-"

"Boring. Too simple. I give the police force three days to work it out. A four and a half, and as has been previously established that is certainly _not_ worth leaving the flat."

John tossed the useless file away, exhaling frustratedly.

"Sherlock, don't you ever get tired?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John anticipated a stony, ignorant remark. He was not disappointed.

"John, exhaustion is a chemical bodily reaction, like anything else. Combine enough caffeine, nicotine, and suitable breathing patterns and no man need ever feel tired ag-"

"That's not what I mean."

Sherlock had been staring blankly at the wall opposite him, but John's tone of voice prompted him to look up.

"You're tired of this?"

"Not of this, no. I'm tired in _general_. I need a break, Sherlock, it's just a trivial thing that us humans like to take sometimes."

John flopped onto the sofa. He could feel Sherlock watching him, assessing him, but he didn't care. The other man's obsession with danger was refreshing, exciting, but it was time for him to pause, regardless of the thrill-seeking fixes his flatmate needed to function.

"You mean, perhaps, a holiday?" his flatmate ventured, quietly.

John met Sherlock's gaze, a glimmer of hope flitting over his features. A holiday, anything, even if it was just down the road would be perfect. He needed to get away from 221B Baker St, he needed time to think. He didn't know what about, but he was pretty sure what Adler had said had something to do with it. He opened his mouth to utter a suggestion but Sherlock quickly cut him off.

"Waste of time, John. You can relax here as much as you physically could in any other location. _Do_ remember that people's lives are at stake."

John snorted, looking down again. No matter how long they had lived together, Sherlock's frustrating knack for being implausibly untactful still managed to put him on edge.

"As if that's what you care about." He grunted, moving from his seat.

With that, he decided to go to bed. He felt emotionally drained and he wasn't sure why, but he was sure that sleep would solve his problems. He could feel Sherlock's eyes boring into his back, but he shrugged them off, it wasn't as if the man would ever feel any shred of understanding for him. Sure, Irene in her own confounding way had somehow provoked an emotional response from the man, but he was convinced nothing of that nature would ever happen again in his lifetime, especially not concerning him.

* * *

><p>John awoke to the unwelcome sound of his alarm, and flailed his arm around uselessly in the pitch black to shut it off.<p>

Wait, why was it so dark? He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and pulled the clock towards him. He waited until his vision had focussed enough for him to read the little screen, and then blinked a couple of times, not quite believing what he was reading.

_4.40am_

After subsiding his momentary rage, he frowned, baffled. He hadn't changed his regular 7am alarm, or even touched his clock for several months. Was it broken? Groaning, he placed the clock back down, deciding to try and catch a few more hours of precious sleep befo-

"Ah, John – I see you're up on time."

The sudden sound of Sherlock's voice from the doorway made him jump violently.

"_Jesus_, Sherlock, what the _hell _are you playing at?"

The man smirked imperviously at him across the room.

"I think, John, you might gain from being a tad more gracious in the face of someone who has granted you such a large favour."

"_Favour_? What bloody fa-"

"There's no time for dawdling, John - we have to be at the airport in an hour and you're not even dressed."

"Airport ? Sherloc-"

But before he could structure any kind of comprehensible sentence, Sherlock had flung an envelope onto the bed in front of him, and left the room with an unmistakeable air of smugness and that expression that he always wore when he was _winning_.

John growled under his breath, picking the envelope up. Opening it, he found a pair of plane tickets, with their names printed across them in black capitals. Scanning the ticket sleepily, his eyes came to rest on the destination. Once he had pushed his way through a substantial amount of disbelief, he immediately flung his covers back and stormed out into the kitchen, despite only being clad in a pair of boxers.

"_BERMUDA?_"

He jabbed the plane tickets at his flatmate's expressionless face.

"You're still not dressed, John."

"Could you have given me some warning for _God'_s sake? Wh-I d-don't even...What on earth could have possessed you to want to go to Ber-Fucking-Muda? At 5am on a Saturday morning no bloody less?"

Sherlock only raised an eyebrow in response.

"I booked them an hour ago."

"Why the _hell_ would you have done that?"

John was truly seething now.

"I thought this was what you wanted?"

Almost ready to punch the other man square in the nose, John gritted his teeth together, his restraint failing. He'd been angry with Sherlock anyway, this was definitely the icing on the world's-most-infuriating cake.

"Sherlock, why the _hell _would I _want_ to go to-"

"Didn't you say you wanted a break?" Sherlock's smug expression quickly returned to his face, as he watched the smaller man come to a slow realisation.

John had stopped dead in his tracks. He literally had no idea what to say now. Had Sherlock just committed a...selfless act? He'd have to circle this date in his calendar. Realising he had just been staring in stunned silence, he tried to venture some kind of response.

"You wh-?"

"You said you wanted a break, and I was curious what you meant, so I organised one. We're booked in with a private villa about 20 minutes drive from the outskirts of St George's for two weeks. No cases, no murders, and no me if you like, I've placed an optional reservation on another villa if you wanted space, whatever _that_ is. Now hurry up. Your suitcase is outside your door."

And with that, Sherlock left the room in a flourish of trench-coat and dark curly hair, and John stood there for a second trying to process what was going on. Two weeks. Holiday. Bermuda. Sherlock. Was it what he wanted? He wasn't really being given a choice either way.

* * *

><p>The journey had gone surprisingly smoothly, all things considered. Mrs Hudson had wished them a 'romantic' trip and John had gone his usual shade of violent red, firmly reassuring her of his sexuality whilst Sherlock strode ahead to hail a taxi. The hours onboard the aeroplane hadn't progressed too catastrophically either; They left the plane with Sherlock only having belittled two other passengers, all of the onboard staff, as well as interrupting a conversation mid-flight to correct the pronunciation of Bermuda, and not <em>Barmayda <em>(He had obviously decorated this correction with a variety of additional insults to the particular woman's intelligence). Needless to say, the flight was a success in that they had managed to evade being flung out into the North Atlantic.

After leaving arrivals, John was predictably made resident pack-horse and was seriously starting to doubt his resolve to stay, whilst Sherlock yelled down the phone at an 'incomprehensibly stupid' taxi firm. However, his mood did make an unexpected shift. When they finally arrived at their destination, John had to drop the luggage, partially out of a combination of heatstroke and pure exhaustion, but mainly out of shock. The villa itself was beautiful, gleaming white, with plants climbing the walls and cascading over the edges and undersides of a balcony which stood outside a top set of bay windows. It felt like he had just walked into an idyllic picture out of an expensive holiday catalogue.

"Sherlock, how much did this cost?" he breathed, quite unable to process the sight before him.

"A man in the area owes me a considerable favour. I was therefore able to procure a considerable discount." Sherlock replied in an unimpressed monotone.

"Does everyone on earth owe you a favour?" John replied, still in a haze of awe.

"Just about. Hurry up, John. It's far too hot to be standing around out here."

John mused absent-mindedly that this was the detective's own fault for insisting on wearing his trench-coat, but decided not to say anything and followed him obediently up to the entrance. Sherlock unlocked the front door with a pair of keys that had emerged inexplicably from his pocket, and John followed him unquestioningly through into a large sitting area, a colourful mixture of dark red and mahogany and pillows and probably everything he could possibly have wanted.

"Bloody hell." was all he managed to produce.

"I take that it is to your liking?"

"Yeah...Fuck. I mean, God I – Thank you."

John was finding it difficult to express his gratitude to the other man, partially because he hated that Sherlock was winning and partially because he had never dreamt of a more surreally perfect location in his life. John put the bags down for a second to take in his surroundings.

There was an adjoining kitchen to the sitting room, with fridge, cooker, and, to his confusion and delight, a packed fridge. There was a bathroom downstairs, and another room containing a large television at the back with sliding windows that opened out onto a terrace. And-wait, was that a swimming pool?

"Now. What is it that we do?"

John turned around expecting Sherlock to be raising a cynical eyebrow, but instead, the man was regarding him with what seemed to be an expression of genuine curiosity. John laughed, but Sherlock gave him no further response, so he stopped. Why was Sherlock observing him like one of his guinea pigs, as if there was some kind of substance he was aiming to extract from him? Had- wait, had he never been on a holiday before?

"Well, I mean, ehm - Nothing, really."

"Nothing?"

The man's expression had not altered. He was being entirely serious.

"Nothing. We do nothing. That's the point, Sherlock. We sit, we read, we talk, we eat, we go for a walk, we take a trip to the town if we're feeling really exciting. But primarily nothing. What did you expect? Surely you've been on a generic family holiday before?"

But even as he said it, John knew that the detective probably hadn't experienced a 'generic' anything. Sherlock looked as if someone had just thrown a brick in his face. There was a pause, before his expression suddenly contorted into a disappointed frown.

"That's it?" he snapped, starting to pace.

"Yes. What were you expecting? It's called a _break _for a reason_!_"

John genuinely couldn't believe his ears. How could Sherlock possibly have survived this long without taking some time out of his continuous trains of thought? Sherlock groaned.

"Well. Something, at least, John! Think of all the time we're wast-"

But miraculously, he stopped himself, schooling his expression with his calculating blue eyes set on John's face. John felt uncomfortable, had he done something?

"Sorry. Right. I mean - well we'd better make the most of..._nothing_... We're here now, I may as well _endure_ it."

And with that, he began to climb the stairs, beckoning behind him like nothing had happened.

"Bring my bags up, will you!" he yelled down the stairs, and John obeyed, still not quite sure what was going on. But whatever it was that had just happened resulted in them staying, so he wasn't about to complain.

* * *

><p>After what seemed an age of unpacking and bartering with Sherlock over who got the bigger room, John eventually surrendered and made his way out to the terrace to get some space. He'd invited his flatmate outside but in actuality he had been glad when the other refused. Over the past month, there had been this odd tension between them, prompting John to snap and grow irritable despite generally being quite docile in nature. And Sherlock, though frustrating in all senses of the word, had been tolerable up until this point. But what had changed?<p>

John paced the edge of the pool, watching the clear, blue, chlorinated water ripple slightly in the breeze. He sat down, dangling his feet over the edge in an attempt to cool down – it was wonderfully hot, the contrast to the ever-mild London weather was staggering. And the silence, the beautiful silence, the ability to sit down and _think_ without a million cars driving past or a violin screeching its way into his consciousness was entirely refreshing.

Despite his seemingly empty mind, Adler's words continued to haunt him, even when he was hundreds of miles away, and their conversation seemed an age ago.

"_But I am. Look at the both of us..."_

What could possibly link them? Sherlock, presumably. And by telling him she was gay, what point did she hope to make? He ran a hand through his hair confusedly, trying to halt his train of thought by casting his gaze over the gorgeous view in front of him. Trees seemed to stretch in every direction, with the glittering sea adorning the horizon. But still, he couldn't completely lose himself in the scenery, he needed to assess what it was the woman had meant. He smirked, this must be what it was like to live like Sherlock on a daily basis.

So. Right. Think about this rationally. If she _was_ gay, and she was saying that in direct response to his not being gay. So she was saying that _despite_ their sexualities, something linked them. And that something must be...

John's hand fell from his head, and realisation dawned like a sledgehammer. So she had meant that their...No, _HER_ feelings for Sherlock came despite her sexuality. And she had therefore implied the same for him. John shifted uncomfortably, Irene had stared him straight in the eye when she had said that. She hadn't been speculating, that had been a pure, uncensored statement of belief. How could he and Sherlock possibly have given that impression to her? Unless Sherlock had said something to her, which he highly doubted. Besides, what she and Sherlock had was a kind of (disgusting) pure unadulterated lust – how could she possibly have seen anything like that in his relationship with the detective, it was ridiculous.

So. That was that solved. Irene was just another person who thought he and Sherlock were an item. Brilliant. End of story. And he'd probably never see her again.

But why was it still bothering him? He remembered the way that she had looked at him, through him, as if she were directing some kind of interrogation. And...wait. Shit. Sherlock had overheard that conversation. Did Sherlock thin-

"John! Where are you? Did you pack my razor? I refuse to walk around the island looking like I've just wandered out of a homeless shelter!"

John snorted, as his flatmate's dulcet tones sounded from the top window.

"Only you would worry about shaving over this fantastic view! It's wrapped up in your towel!" He yelled back. There was no response, apart from the sound of luggage being tossed roughly to the side.

How could anyone possibly be attracted to Sherlock anyway? He was fairly good looking, John supposed, and unfathomably intelligent. But his approach to people, or rather his lack thereof, was insatiably harsh and unfeeling. But, as John thought about it, he did occasionally show some compassion. He remembered his violent reaction to Mrs Hudson's mistreatment. And, when he thought about it carefully, the expression of pure, believable terror on his face as he had ripped the bomb from John's chest after Moriarty's exit. Probably he was just unused to being one step behind someone and was just reacting badly. But there had been something vulnerable, scary, in his face that night. He'd been looking at John as if he was actually..._worried_.

John felt his stomach turn as he remembered that face. The arms gripping his shoulders, the harsh breathing, the wide eyes. That had been the only time he'd seen Sherlock well and truly frightened. And it had been for him. His stomach flipped again, and he reddened immediately, kicking his feet in the water. This was silly. Maybe too much thought wasn't good for him. He couldn't genuinely be _wanting_ Sherlock to worry about him. Could he?

No. Yes. No.

Yes. He admitted to himself that he did crave getting a rise out of Sherlock, even for the tiniest things, if only to see a shred of emotion on his unreadable face. But that didn't mean anything. He certainly didn't like Sherlock as Irene had implied, and definitely not in a _sexual _way.

Imagining the detective in any kind of compromising situation was almost laughable – especially since his obvious virginity would get in the way in any kind of 'steaminess'. It was funny though, the detective strived to appear as a sort of omniscient God, who knew everything there was to know and had experienced everything there was to experience, and yet he had never gone through one of the most basic processes in life. Did he not have urges? Some sort of primal need? John was basically asexual but even he felt the burn after a dry spell. Sherlock probably wanked himself into submission or something.

Trying hard to expel the idea of his flatmate masturbating out of his head, he was jolted from his thoughts as something blunt hit the back of his head.

"Fuck – ow!" He whipped round to glare at his flatmate, picking up the offending object – a dictionary.

"You weren't replying. I'm bored and it's too hot."

"Take the fucking coat off!"

* * *

><p>Though he had seemingly resolved the conflict in his mind, John didn't feel the tension lift between him and Sherlock. It was as if something was waiting to be released, building up. Sherlock wasn't helping matters either, the heat just seemed to make him want to be even more annoying - they seemed to be having more arguments than at home. And the blazing heat wasn't helping – John had to walk around in only his shorts and flip-flops to get to some kind of bearable heat, even though the air conditioning was on full blast. Sherlock, though initially stubborn, had almost fainted and as a result had consented to wearing a pair of John's shorts around the house, his incredibly pale skin seeming to completely reflect the sunlight as it hit him.<p>

John realised that he hadn't really ever seen Sherlock's unclothed physique, despite living with him and having treated an infinite amount of cuts, scrapes and wounds on the detective's body. He was lanky, scrawny, even, but there was a glimpse of muscle on his torso, and despite the thinness there was a lithe, lean and taught element to his body that reminded John of a young 20-something, not someone in his early 30s. His shoulders were broad, and his waist tapered in. John's shorts were slightly too big for him, so the waistline would drop slightly to the very base of Sherlock's navel, so that John could see the man's hipbones pointing out over the top of the clothes. His skin was covered in a layer of sweat, and his face was uncharacteristically flushed – and John couldn't help but admit he looked healthier, more attractive this way.

Realising he had been staring, John looked away immediately. What was he doing? And Sherlock wouldn't let that go unnoticed.

"You appear to like what you see, John."

Sherlock's sultry, mocking baritone confirmed that for him.

"Just thought you ought to think about getting a tan, you look ill."

He'd just saved that one. Why was he suddenly so engrossed in his flatmate's appearance? Idiot. Sherlock would tease him for ages. And if he already thought that John was harbouring some kind of more-than-friendly affection for him, unashamedly staring at him wasn't going to help.

"I have no concern for my appearance. We are in rural Bermuda, with no one within a mile of us, and there is no individual I am looking to endear myself to, why should it bother me how pale I am?"

John sighed.

"I was just – oh, nevermind."

There was a pause. And then Sherlock tensed, standing. John looked at him inquisitively.

"We have a leak."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"That dripping noise. It's not rocket science, John."

"Oh. Where is it?"

Sherlock walked towards the back room, the room directly below John's bedroom. John shrugged, reaching for a book, when there was suddenly a loud crash from behind him. Jumping up, he whipped around, to see Sherlock covered in a layer of dust.

"What on earth-?"

"Bloody Richard. Knew there had to be a catch." The detective grumbled, wiping dust unaffectedly from his face as if the implosion was just a mild annoyance.

John pushed past him to find that the entire ceiling had collapsed through, bringing his bed and several of his bags with it.

"Oh, fuck!" John exclaimed, making his way through the wreckage to pick up his belongings. "How the bloody hell did that happen?"

His bed was completely in half. And had, in turn, fallen on the television and crushed the only sofa. Which meant he was sleeping out on the terrace. Fantastic.

"Well this is great, I didn't even bring a bloody sleeping bag. Figures that it's my room that gets destro-"

"Don't be ridiculous. You'll sleep in my bed."

John's stomach flipped again. He immediately turned red, shaking his head violently.

"No! I- I mean don't worry about it, I'll sleep on the floor or something. Months in the army don't leave you with a need for comfortable sleeping arrangements." He chuckled weakly, but the other man's expression didn't alter.

"John, I am _not_ allowing you to sleep on the floor for two weeks. Especially as this break was predominantly your idea."

"Sherlock, I don-"

"I am not a hormonal teenager, and neither are you. I am not going to molest you in the dead of night and given the way you are reacting neither will you. "

Trying to get a flurry of unhelpful mental images out of his head, John coughed awkwardly, trying to talk his way out of it.

"I-I suppose. It is a big bed. B-but still – I have my nightmares, you know that- you won't want to sl-"

"Your last nightmare was 2 months and eight days ago. And regardless, they wouldn't disturb me."

This was true. John didn't even want to know how Sherlock knew that.

"Besides, John. You know I don't sleep a lot. I will only _be _in the bed with you for a fraction of the time that you are. You probably won't even be conscious for the period of time that I am. Will that be satisfactory?"

And realistically, John was running out of options. He sighed, defeated.

"Fine. But you're wearing pyjamas."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Very well. "

Regardless, he was still going to have to spend the night sleeping next to Sherlock Holmes. And not just that night – two weeks! Bloody hell. And what if Sherlock was an abnormal sleeper, he could imagine him strangling him halfway through a violent nightmare or something. Not only that, but he didn't think that at this present moment, when he was in the middle of an important stage of self-assessment and feeling quite uncomfortable in general, that being in a too-close proximity to the subject of his confusion was a very good idea.

John sighed, and began to separate his bags from the wreckage. Sherlock seemed completely oblivious to how uncomfortable John was finding the thought of sleeping nearby – no –_next_ to him. But he was Sherlock Holmes, he must have some kind of unnecessary store of body language meanings in that brain of his somewhere. But as Sherlock strode away, obviously not lending any sort of bodily effort into helping him, John really wasn't sure that the sleeping arrangements were going to have any effect on the detective whatsoever. Maybe he was overreacting. And it probably wouldn't be that bad, as Sherlock had mentioned – he was barely going to be there at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**A Scandal in Bermuda**

**Chapter 2**

**A/N: Thanks so much for the interest everyone - hope you enjoy it!**

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><p>Sherlock smirked to himself as he made his way out to the terrace. So far, everything had slotted so perfectly into plan that even he couldn't quite believe how successfully it had gone. He'd found the receiver in the plant pot as Richard had assured him, the false room had been constructed near-perfectly, though he had seen some places where the handiwork was more careless, the fake floorboards had been messily aligned and the bedstead had been clearly made of vinyl rather than wood. Regardless, John had missed them. And, of course, the entire ceiling had fallen through at the touch of a button. Some might argue that there were less convoluted methods of getting one's flatmate to share a bed with you, but though John was stupid, he wasn't <em>that<em> stupid.

Ever since meeting Adler, as well as the conversation he'd overheard between her and his flatmate, an old experiment that had been sat in the back of his mind had begun to surface again. He had initially concluded that the doctor was so determinedly straight, his clothes, his army-standard haircut, his sickening capacity for sycophancy when around a member of the opposite sex – John was as straight as an arrow. Right? Wrong.

Irene's weakness was sentiment, empathy, _feeling. _An attribute Sherlock had little experience in. And of course, it was why he'd been able to win her over. And yet, though he often asserted that it was a quality of the losing side, it did mean he completely overlooked a whole section of people's thought patterns that couldn't be determined by body language, clothing, action or mannerism alone. And she had that skill over him. Which is why she'd managed to out John Watson without John, or Sherlock for that matter, having any preconception of it. Though it might simply have been speculation, Sherlock was almost convinced that she was right, given John's recent behaviour (though largely provoked.)

And though Irene would have been an overly willing subject to his experiments in sentiment, her methods were somewhat unorthodox, dominating, and, though he hated to admit it, intimidating. Moriarty's nickname had an infuriating truth to it. And this was not something he was willing to let pass him by. So, as he'd concluded, the need for him to _experience _sentiment in a physical sense, was entirely necessary in that the knowledge of it would aide him in later analytical ventures. He knew the science of it, but evidently that wasn't enough. And he needed a test subject. As he'd previously concluded, Irene would not do – she was infuriating, quicker than most, and her feral need to _dominate_ made him feel sick. No, the whole concept of it was humiliating.

But, though Irene failed to be of use herself, she had at least succeeded in pointing him towards a much more suitable guinea pig. John Watson, whilst much more submissive, was just as, if not more, fascinating. He could read John like a book, and yet even he had overlooked what Irene had managed to see. And this infuriated him.

The only setback was that, having never practiced any kind of _seduction_ before – even the word made him feel uneasy – despite having looked at enough material via the internet to last him a lifetime of nauseous movie love scenes, he knew that in actuality this would only succeed in being a humiliating and ultimately counterproductive exercise. So, instead, he was going to make John seduce him. He was going to manipulate John's biology, and, if Irene had been correct in her observations, frustrate him into a confession so that Sherlock could study him in detail, and take advantage of the repercussions.

Sex had never been something that caught his interest before – he knew exactly how it worked, and the whole thing seemed a primal, animalistic ritual that reduced people to their very basic, thoughtless roots. And he had previously no intention of reducing himself to that state in order just to 'get off'. But now, in the name of science, and reputation (Moriarty's nickname being the final straw), it was just something that needed doing. And the only person he could feel comfortable conducting said experiment with was John. Not because he felt anything, of course not, only because if it were an absolute stranger it would be a threat to his public image, and he wouldn't be able to predict their movements quite as well as he would John's. And John was, as always, there when he needed him.

Removing the shorts and changing into a pair of black swimming shorts, Sherlock positioned himself on the edge of the pool, and gracefully dove into the water. It was time to initiate the next stage. He was not the type to parade himself around like a showgirl, and speedos were too insulting to even think about – John would evidently suspect something if he acted _that_ out of character. But, as John's wandering eyes had confirmed for him earlier, his bare torso was enough to provoke carnal thought, and covering himself in water would probably provide enough imagery for John to be going with. After all, it was only the first night, he had a whole two weeks to complete the experiment, for now he would only be using casual suggestion.

* * *

><p>John, meanwhile, had finished picking up the worst of the wreckage, and recovering what he could of his belongings – thankfully none of which had broken. It was just his luck that this sort of thing would happen. He heard a splash outside – Sherlock had actually gone swimming then? This seemed odd in his head – the detective didn't seem the type to swim recreationally, let alone do <em>anything<em> recreationally that didn't require intense, inhuman levels of thought. He'd often criticize John for his obligatory morning run; When John insisted he liked it because it took his mind off things Sherlock would usually chastise him for being so careless as to _want_ to take his mind off things. Wandering towards the bay windows, John decided to take a look, if only to confirm that Sherlock was doing something human, not for any other reason. He watched the younger man make a strong, confident front crawl up and down the pool.

Again, he found himself wondering at the detective's physique – there was muscle definition and strength underneath the disguise of his lanky teenage body. He continued to watch as the sun hit Sherlock's back when it surfaced, watching his shoulder blades rippling as he thrust his arms forward, ploughing his way through the water. He moved in the same aggressive, unstoppable way in which he conducted himself on cases, John mused. As Sherlock paused, coming up to breathe, he almost laughed at the sodden curls, now plastered to the man's face. The smile left his face, however, when the detective climbed out of the pool, and his entire body was now on show, glistening with water, droplets cascading down his bare chest, over his abdomen, lower. John knew that this was the moment to look away, but he couldn't. He should definitely look away. Right. Now. But watching the detective in this new, surreal light, it wasn't something he could look away from easily. His stomach was turning again, he felt an odd mixture of awe, excitement and desperate unease. Because he'd never looked this way at Sherlock, and it was scaring him.

Sherlock, suddenly, put his hand to his forehead, frowning, and, to John's horror, began to sway violently towards the stone edge of the pool. John was at once to attention and ran to catch him – the detective definitely shouldn't have strained himself this hard when they both knew he was prone to fainting. He caught him just as his eyes had rolled back into his head and he was on his way to the ground. Sherlock soon opened his eyes, blinking, confused.

"Sherlock, are you alright? What did I say about taking it easy – you're not used to this heat!"

John lowered him slowly to the ground so the other man could regain his composure, trying to ignore the feel of the detective's warm, wet body in such close proximity. What didn't help the situation was that Sherlock had clutched his arm on the way down, bringing them even closer together. And wasn't letting go.

"Sorry John, d-don't know what happened there." The detective frowned as if trying to solve a puzzle, and then cast his gaze towards John. As their eyes met, John saw something calculating in the other man's eyes, and he realised just how close their naked torsos were. He felt himself tremble with, what, nerves? He was a doctor, he'd had plenty of scantily clad patients in the past, he'd even had to conduct prostate examinations, why was he in any way _nervous_ around his half-naked flatmate? He became all the more aware of Sherlock's pale, wet skin, and how it might feel to t- Inhaling sharply, he sprung away, mumbling something about going to get him a glass of water and how Sherlock should _stay there_.

Once reaching the kitchen, John paused, running a hand through his hair, trying to calm himself down. He wasn't sure what had just happened. And he definitely didn't _like_ it. The last time he'd felt nerves like _that _had been...well, his first time. He remembered how his teenage self had trembled at the closeness, the contact, heart rate quickening at the worry it was all going to go wrong paired with the excitement of what was to happen. Why then, why was he beginning to act like an overexcitable seventeen year old again? He'd even thought about _touching_ Sherlock. He couldn't possibly be attract-

"I'd rather have juice."

John almost jumped out of his skin as the familiar baritone sounded very closely to the shell of his ear. He whipped around to find the taller man very much behind him.

"I-I, sorry, yes. You should have stayed outside, you can't just get up and wander around again as if nothing's just happened – sit down, doctor's orders!" John babbled, moving away as quickly as he could to find a glass.

"Are you okay, John?"

"Yep. Fine. You just gave me a fright is all." John was trying hard to recompose himself, but the very half-naked, damp Sherlock Holmes was still standing opposite him.

"Well I'm flattered you care, but I'm absolutely fine. I'll have the drink though." Sherlock was watching him closely, his eyes strong, blue, calculating once again. What was he up to? John turned away, busying himself and his mind with fetching the juice from the fridge, though he'd become inexplicably hyper-sensitive, he could hear the other man's breathing as clearly as if it had been through a loudspeaker, though Sherlock was standing several paces away. He handed Sherlock the glass, concentrating on breathing deeply and most of all, _not looking_.

"Thanks, John, by the way. Not sure what I'd be without you." Sherlock chuckled.

He looked up at that, and their eyes met again, his heart pounding in his chest. Sherlock was watching him again.

"Dead, knowing you. Take it easy on the swimming from now on, yeah?"

"No, I've decided I quite enjoy it, something I should really do more often. You can keep an eye on me though, if you're so worried about it."

John blanched, as Sherlock turned away to climb the stairs. Had he known? Surely not, he'd been looking away the entire time. John made himself a strong drink and sat down on a nearby stool.

He had to work out why he was acting like this. The nerves, the blushing, the _thoughts. _They hadn't been platonic. They hadn't been friendly. He was acting as if...he cringed, not quite able to admit it to himself...as if he was a nervous schoolboy, forced into close proximity with a..with...He took a large gulp of whisky.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to suss out why Sherlock was having this effect on him. He was straight. He liked women – that was undeniable. And Sherlock wasn't effeminate, in any way shape or form. Slightly camp, perhaps, but only really in that he was eccentric, his outlook and mannerisms were undeniably strong, male and domineering. But he wasn't bisexual, the one time he'd ever been come on to by a member of the opposite sex he'd felt awkward, uneasy, and most of all he had not been reciprocal. Not in a denial sort of way, he genuinely could not imagine himself in any kind of sexual situation with another male. But...with Sherlock? No. The other man was completely asexual, he didn't conduct himself in any kind of sexual way, how could he ever be an option.

But even then, what if he - god forbid it - _was _to view Sherlock in a sexual light. The few times he'd masturbated in the flat had been to pictures of women, stuff on his laptop, which Sherlock never failed to mention in public if he got the chance. Sherlock had absolutely never crossed his mind. But then, he guessed he'd never tried.

Not quite believing what he was about to start doing, cringing internally at the thought, he leant back against the kitchen counter, closed his eyes and tried to think about his flatmate in a...suggestible situation. He immediately, without provocation, began to visualize Sherlock at the poolside, how he had been just 20 minutes ago, hadn't he wanted to...touch him? Something new, unknown, began to stir inside him as he thought about running his hand over the lean body, intensifying as he envisioned those large, long fingers returning the gesture, moving over his chest, his stomach, the small of his back...the vision began to get more intense, he bit his lip as he conjured pictures of Sherlock's flushed face, panting, those inpenetrable grey eyes staring up at him through a mass of tousled, wet curls. Without any kind of warning, a small moan surfaced from the back of his throat and he felt a jolt of painfully familiar heat hit his lower abdomen. His eyes snapped open.

Shit. That meant...

Oh god. There was no denying it now.

* * *

><p>Sherlock made his way up the stairs, smiling to himself. That had all gone perfectly – John had, as he'd predicted, been watching him, and unquestioningly run to his aid during the 'faint.' Sherlock had never considered himself the best of actors but was really starting to praise himself for that one, to convince someone you were fainting was one thing, to convince a fully-trained doctor was really quite brilliant. And grabbing his arm, maintaining eye contact, studying the other man closely – he'd seen the evidence, the doctor's pupils had immediately dilated, he'd even felt the other man shaking, there was no need to have taken his pulse, the confirmation had been staring him straight in the face. Especially as he'd discovered John having to calm himself down in the kitchen afterwards. It was all just going so well.<p>

After drying himself off, he was about to walk back down to the kitchen, when he spied John taking a seat at the counter. He paused at the top of the stairwell, watching closely as the other man relaxed, closing his eyes. This was odd behaviour. He watched further as the other man's breathing began to come out shorter, more shallow. John bit his lip, and Sherlock began to feel uneasy – he could feel his own heartbeat starting to quicken – what was this? This was new, previously unrecorded data. He felt himself urging the image to continue, this had not been pre-planned. Suddenly, the other man let out a quiet noise at the back of his throat, it was tiny but Sherlock had heard it, and instead of smugness, self-righteousness, some other feeling gripped him – that tiny, seemingly insignificant noise had gone straight to his lower half, and his body felt hot. Hotter than before.

Images of John making similar noises flitted in and out of his usually undistractable train of thought and he immediately backtracked to his room, quite unsure what to make of this reaction. In all his time, even during puberty, he'd never experienced this before. He'd felt sexual arousal before, but that had come with a lot of awkward, forced, provocation which was very much a scientific venture rather than conducive to any kind of personal pleasure. But this, this was absolutely new, surprising, completely out of his control. And as much as he tried to regain a state of normality, those images, that _sound_, stuck fast in his head. This was terrifying and fascinating. The fact that John Watson excited him to that level, it was beginning to drive him mad how little he understood the mechanics of it. He had to get to the bottom of this, and as quickly as possible.

* * *

><p>AN: Hope you enjoyed the chapter - will try and update quickly but have work i should probably be writing instead so might not be as quick next time :P


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Sorry about the wait guys, exams are getting the better of me - plus Reichenbach absolutely destroyed me - what a sad episode :(**

**Hope you enjoy this chapter!**

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><p>John spent the rest of the day 'reading', when in actuality he'd spent a lot of it skimming the same sentence countless times and avoiding eye contact with the subject of his thought. After he'd gotten to the 20th page in all of 2 hours, he looked up at the clock, heart beating fast as he saw the time.<p>

11:46pm

He usually went to bed at 11 sharp if he and Sherlock weren't on some sort of case. He'd been putting it off for a while now but his eyelids were beginning to droop, and the warm, humid climate was making him feel drowsy and tempting him upstairs. Sherlock wasn't in the room with him, but he could hear the loud, fast tapping of laptop keys from the room next-door. It figured that Sherlock would be spending the majority of a two week holiday on the internet. On the bright side, John thought, it probably meant the detective wasn't sleepy, so hopefully he would be able to sleep through the portion of the night where the younger man was lying next to him.

The thought of being in such a close intimate space with Sherlock had set him on edge all evening. Ever since his _revelation_ earlier, he was at a complete loss as to how to handle the situation. He knew there was no way on earth the other man had any reciprocal feelings, due to the fact he was a self-diagnosed sociopath, and had never demonstrated any kind of real sentiment for another human being in his life. A hug was about the pinnacle of what Sherlock Holmes had the capacity to comprehend in terms of intimacy. So basically, any and all fantasies his head might be indulging in were utterly impossible. Yet images of the scantily-clad detective would still flit across his memory and he could do nothing to stop it.

Taking a deep breath, he quietly put his book down, and began to climb the stairs. Halfway up, he began to tell himself not to be so stupid – Sherlock wasn't going to care about sleeping next to him, why should he? He probably wouldn't even sleep that night.

"Going to bed, John?"

Something about the way Sherlock said the word _bed_ sent shivers crawling down his back. He turned to regard the other man leaning against the doorframe, watching him in that _feral_ way that never failed to unnerve him.

"Yup. Bit of an early night tonight I'm afraid, want to get up and go for a run down the hill tomorrow morning."

"I'll never understand your odd behavioural patterns, why would anyone want to _exert_ themselves in this heat?" Sherlock paused. "Think I'll join you, the climate seems to be playing with my energy levels."

As John felt his face drain of colour, Sherlock seemed to notice.

"That is okay, John?"

"I-uh, yeah, of course. I-It's your bed too. Why would it bother me?"

He felt himself start to tremble with anxiety.

"Right, well, think I'll go change."

"I'll be up in a minute, I just need to finish something on the site."

John grunted a reply, moving up the stairs as quickly as his legs would take him. After reaching the room, he closed the door and leant against it briefly, trying to calm his rapid pulse. Right. So Sherlock would be climbing into bed with him. Right. Okay. Calm down. The hardest part would be trying to fall asleep. But Sherlock wouldn't talk. Would he? Well they most definitely wouldn't _cuddle_. He bit back a nervous laugh, and started to undress. It would be fine. As long as he didn't sleep-hug him. T Oh god, what if...what if he had a wet-dream about him, _next_ to him? What if he woke up spooning him? He began to massage his forehead, which had begun to sweat with unease. And _god_ was it hot. He wouldn't be able to sleep in pyjamas, and neither would Sherlock, without overheating during the night. He looked over at the bed. Shit. Why did it suddenly seem ten times smaller?

A knock at the door almost made him jump out of his skin.

"John, can I come in?"

That was uncharacteristically polite of Sherlock. Though he'd probably sensed, with his insatiable observances that John was feeling anxious. Anxious being the understatement of the year.

"Yeah, sure!" His voice came out about an octave higher than his normal speaking range, what was _wrong _with him? And as the other man entered he realised that he was only clad in his boxer shorts, having failed to actually _change_. Fuck. He saw Sherlock raise an eyebrow. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. Now he definitely thought John was coming on to him.

"Um. I know I said about pyjamas, but that would probably be a bad idea given the heat. You're welcome to wear them though, of course." John squeaked an excuse.

"I-I'm going to go brush my teeth." He stuttered, moving quickly to the bathroom and shutting the door. Great, well done John, he didn't _need_ to know that. Stop acting like an idiot.

Picking up the toothbrush with his trembling hand, he looked at himself in the mirror. Where would his sub-conscious even _try _to find cause for these unwelcome thoughts? His face was beginning to droop with age, the muscles on his torso weren't anywhere near as pronounced as when he'd been in Afghanistan, he'd lost weight everywhere, and his healthy tan had been reduced to a pale glimmer of its past self. Why would Sherlock, the image of tall, dark and handsome ever think to consider him in a potential partner? The whole thing was stupid, so really he shouldn't be worrying about it.

After almost half an hour of deep breathing and self-criticism, John opened the door. To find the detective's bare back facing him. Deep breaths, John. Sherlock turned around.

"You were a long time brushing your teeth."

"Oh, I shaved as well." John wanted to kick himself the moment he'd said it.

"You didn't. There's no foam residue and you still have considerable stubble all over your chin."

"I...look, it doesn't matter. I'm going to bed, Sherlock." He tried to move forward but Sherlock blocked him. To John's horror he moved slightly closer.

"Well judging by your obvious agitation, compulsive lying and incredibly closed body language you were probably worrying about something. You can't have been masturbating as you are far too tense to h-"

"_Sherlock_? why would I ev-" John spluttered a horrified response but Sherlock cut him off.

"I'm not saying you did, I'm just ruling it out as a possibility. This is to do with sharing the same bed, isn't it?"

"Why would you-"

"You're not making eye contact, and you're looking at the bed like it's a minefield."

"I-, just," John sighed. Sherlock's eyes seemed to widen slightly, like he was expecting something. "Sherlock, you know how uncomfortable I find this situation, please don't worsen it by making me talk about it."

Sherlock kept looking at him, seeming not to blink.

"Yes. I have a potential solution to your unease."

John's head snapped up. What was he-

Sherlock began to move closer. Soon he was so close their noses were only inches apart. John's heartbeat increased tenfold. Those calculating, relentless grey eyes bored right into his. Sherlock didn't say anything.

"Wh-what is it?" John almost whispered. The tension in the room was so thick he could have cut it with a knife. He could feel the detective's breath on his lips. The heat of Sherlock's body so close to his. It would be so easy, _too_ easy, to close the space between them.

"I could sleep downstairs, in the armchair."

John blinked out of his reverie, and stepped back, clearing his voice.

"I-uh, well."

"If this arrangement is causing you anxiety, I'm quite happy to-"

"No." John said before he could stop himself.

Sherlock's eyebrows quirked up– it was a tiny, micro-expression but John caught it. Oh, jesus, what was he doing _now_?

"Very well."

And with that, Sherlock swept past him into the bathroom, as if nothing had happened. John blinked. So this was happening. Calm down, John.

He turned off the light and climbed into the bed, which now seemed ten times smaller. If he went to sleep as quickly as possible, perhaps then he wouldn't be awake when Sherlock emerged from the bathroom. He closed his eyes, but even then he knew that because his heart was pumping in his chest, sweat forming on his brow, there was no way he'd be getting to sleep _soon_.

* * *

><p>Sherlock put down his toothbrush, staring at his limp, pale body in the mirror. His pulse was elevated, his breathing harsh, his body coated in a thin layer of sweat. He'd have liked to blame these symptoms on the heat, but unfortunately this was not the case. After the initial amusement of making John squirm, things had taken a turn in the other direction when he'd made that step forwards. It had initially been intended to intimidate and provoke John, which it had, admittedly, succeeded in doing. But the close proximity with the other man had set him on edge, he'd felt him close, heard the other man's short breaths, seen him swallow, <em>seen <em>his eyes dart down to his lips. And he'd almost lost control, regaining it at the very last minute. These new..._feelings_...he was experiencing were not registering in his internal database whatsoever. This heat, this unbearable heat, that spread over his body, the tension and most infuriatingly, his teetering over the edge of control. He _never_ allowed himself to lose control. Ever. But, he was beginning to worry that was his experiment going to succeed he might need to.

He took a deep breath to slow his heart rate, cleared his voice, and opened the bathroom door. The light was off, so he had to take a moment to clarify his vision. He saw the duvet move slightly, and noticed that John had curled himself right into the far corner of the bed. The other man was also, in vain, pretending to be asleep. Sherlock snorted softly, making his way to the other side of the bed quietly, but not too quietly. He wanted John to know he was approaching. Predictably, John's form curled tighter as he lifted up the duvet. John's bare, muscled back faced him. He climbed in, pulling the duvet over himself. It was so very hot. As he pulled the duvet, his arm grazed John's back. He felt the other man flinch violently.

"Sorry."

John didn't say anything, evidently still pretending to be asleep, which was physically impossible given that he'd only been in the bathroom for 15 minutes. Sherlock watched the other man's form inflate and deflate. He couldn't make a move now, not with John so averse to his closeness. He'd need to wait a few more nights so the doctor could grow accustomed to sleeping next to him. And besides, he wanted John to make the move. It was evident that he'd realised his feelings, but how far his denial stretched was unpredictable, Sherlock would have to speed up the process if it didn't progress in the next few days. Sherlock sighed, turning his back to the other man. It was infuriating, not being able to control every aspect of his thought. Thoughts of John's touch, touching him now, moving that extra few inches to make contact were muddling his thought-stream, crashing through his mind palace like a bulldozer. He closed his eyes, hoping he could keep it together.

* * *

><p>Sherlock awoke not to daylight, but noise coming from next to him. He took a second to register where he was. Bermuda. Bedroom. Dark. John. He could feel violent movement in the bed next to him and he whipped around. John was covered in sweat, his breathing harsh, his body writhing. His hands were balled into fists. His face was screwed up in stress. He was making small noises in the back of his throat, and suddenly they progressed to fully-felt screams. He was having a nightmare, his first in months.<p>

Sherlock jumped to attention, leaning over the other man and shaking him by the shoulders.

"_John_, wake _UP! JOHN._"

The other man's screams grew louder with the contact, his arms flailing out to try and beat Sherlock off.

"NO – I-"

"JOHN."

The other man's eyes shot open and locked onto Sherlock's. The detective watched as the other man's face moved from fright, to shock, to realisation, to-...tears started to gather in his eyes.

"Sh-sherl-I'm so sorry, I didn-"

"It's okay, John."

Sherlock's hands were still on the doctor's shoulders. He couldn't seem to break eye contact. The other man started to convulse with restrained sobs. He started to get up but Sherlock held him there.

"I-I'll go d-"

"No, you're not going anywhere. Your nightmares are stress-induced John, I know that, you know that. This is your holiday. You shouldn't be stressed. Why?"

"I'm f-"

"Don't say that you're fine."

They stared at each other, in quiet defiance. John looked away, embarrassedly wiping a tear from his face. Sherlock didn't let him go, but instead pulled the other man's shaking body to his, a soothing hand on his back. What was he _doing_? This wasn't part of the plan. This was moving too fast. And yet, he was seized with this overwhelming urge to comfort the doctor. Was this what..._sentiment_...felt like?

John's breathing was harsh, strained. A hand moved slowly up to rest on Sherlock's chest, and he head buried in the detective's shoulder. Sherlock was beginning to doubt his resolve as the warm hand made contact with his chest. It should have felt like an invasion of privacy, but instead, the familiar heat spread from that hand throughout his body like an electrical spark. He shivered slightly.

They sat like that for a while until John's breathing had slowed, both men enjoying the contact more than they'd admit to. John moved back, and Sherlock looked down at him. His face was so very, _very _close. That same, infuriating urge came back to haunt him. But no, he couldn't make the first move. He didn't know _how_ to kiss anyone. He never had. In his reverie he noticed that John hadn't moved away. And was – _what _- moving closer?

Sherlock inhaled sharply as John's hand came to rest on his neck. And suddenly, his head was being pulled down ever-so-gently, and John's nose was touching his. This...was..._happening_. Any and all comprehensible thought left him in an instant, as the doctor's lips made contact with his. He gasped in complete surprise, his lips opening slightly, his eyes closing, and John began to move his lips against him, leading him, _dominating_ him. This felt..._good_. No – _better than good_. Waves of heat and arousal began to hit Sherlock's body and he trembled violently, inhaling sharply, his shaking hand moving to rest uncertainly on the doctor's cheek. His lips began to mimic John's without provocation, he was trying to assess what to do next but any and all brain function had drawn to a complete stop. He was only aware of John, John's body so close to his, his lips moving fervently against his own, the hand on his neck applying pressure, the heat spreading through him - this was so overwhelmingly new, and..._jesus_. He wanted this _so _badly. And more, most importantly - he needed _more_. But before he could savour it any further, John had jumped away, pushing him forcefully to the other side of the bed.

Sherlock opened his eyes to see John standing as far away from him as he physically could. His eyes were wide with horror, his hand was on his mouth.

"Sh-shit. I- I didn't mean to do that. I- Fuck – I'm sorry, really reall-"

"John."

"No- I – I need some air. I'm messed up. D-_Don't _follow me."

And with that he'd swept out of the room, leaving Sherlock kneeling on the bed in a state of frustrated, confused arousal.


	4. Chapter 4

He'd ruined it. He'd ruined everything.

John walked as fast as he could down the dirt-track, trying to the best of his ability to get as far away from that _room_ as was physically possible. He'd have to get a taxi to the airport, send Sherlock a text, maybe endure a week or two of forced conversation before he...

Moved out? Oh, god. He paused to catch his breath, sitting on a rock beside the road, watching the sun begin to appear over the edge of the horizon. He looked behind him, the villa was long out of his sight, he'd been walking for a good ten minutes. He knew..._hoped_ Sherlock wouldn't follow him. The wide-eyed shock on the face of the detective had been confirmation of that. What did he think of him now?

"_John, I feel you should know that I'm married to my work"_

Of course he was. Sherlock would never have feelings for anyone, ever. Let alone feel _attraction._ He massaged his forehead, shivering slightly. It was cold out here. And he'd only managed to put a shirt on over his boxers before leaving the house. And – _fucking hell_ – it was Sherlock's. Fantastic, John, well done. He growled angrily, kicking the ground, feeling a fresh spark of humiliation creep up on him. He was not. Gay. Gay was...disgusting. Unnatural. What he'd been feeling, what he'd _done_ was unnatural.

Why had he done it? He remembered the nightmare clearly; it was the same as every time before. But wait, no, this had been different. He'd hidden behind the tank, watched the bombs go off around him, but this time – it wasn't Clarke, his old comrade, that he'd seen run to his death like before, it had been Sherlock. He remembered the stab of pain, of cold, harsh, horror that he'd felt as his dream self had been unable to hold the detective back, save him, stop him. And then he'd woken up.

He went a brand new shade of red. His stupid, _stupid_ half-asleep self had been convinced Sherlock was dead, and had wanted to - _jesus_ – feel him, make sure he was still alive. But –wait – it was Sherlock who'd pulled him in for the hug, Sherlock the infamous high-functioning sociopath, Sherlock who never made bodily contact with _anybody_. John sighed, confusedly. It was Sherlock's fault. That hug – the contact, the closeness, the warmth and the comfort, it had all made him in his idiotic sleepy state want to _show_ him.

Wait, show him _what_? John frowned. He'd thought it had just been sexual, some strange, animalistic urge that had probably surfaced from a dry spell rather than anything else. But no, he remembered the hurt, the unimaginable hurt he'd felt as he'd watched Sherlock leave him, run to his death. A fresh stab hit his abdomen, and he hugged himself against the cold. This was deeper than that. Oh, fuck, what was he _DOING_? _Why_ was this happening? Why was he considering this? Why couldn't things just stay the way they damn well were before?

He winced as images of the kiss continued to haunt him. He remembered looking up into Sherlock's eyes, those _incredibly_ blue eyes. Thinking of how wonderful it was to have him back. Thinking of how beautiful he looked, in the feeble half-light, his pale skin alight with life, his eyes wide with what had seemed to be concern, but John knew it was probably annoyance, the nightmare couldn't have been quiet. And then he'd gone and fucking kissed him, even managing to pull him down by his neck out of what had no doubt seemed like desperation. WHY, John. _WHY_. His eyes screwed up with humiliation as he remembered how the other man had stiffened in his grasp, inhaled with disgust, probably only moved his lips to tell John to get off him rather than anything. And the horrible, animalistic arousal that had hit his body like wildfire, he'd thankfully stopped himself before it had progressed any further.

But...those _lips._ John's face grew hot as he remembered how horrifically _good _it had felt to feel those lips against his own. And the warmth, the heat, the contact of their two bodies moving together, the hand on his cheek. John placed his hand where Sherlock's had been not so long ago. Had Sherlock..._enjoyed _it? He had kissed back, albeit uncertainly. He'd felt the other man shake against him.

With shock. With _disgust_. No. He wouldn't entertain these stupid thoughts for one minute longer. They were the reason he'd ruined his relationship with the other man, with his best friend. He'd gone and sacrificed his life at Baker St. for a second of measly sexual gratification. Sherlock probably wouldn't ever look at him again. He needed time to formulate a plan of action, to separate himself from what had happened and Sherlock in the least stressful way possible.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was a mess. A shaking, jittery mess. He had been for almost half an hour after the kiss and wasn't sure how he could stop it. He paced around the bedroom, his hand placed on his mouth, where it had been since John had left the room. Intrusions of new, unfamiliar, unrecorded data kept bombarding his conscious and sub-conscious and he couldn't comprehend it all. This was maddening. All he could think about was <em>John<em>.

The scene replayed in his mind like a tape recorder stuck on loop. John's face, John's hands, John's eyes, John's _lips_. _John. John. John_. The plan had backfired. These were no longer stable, laboratory conditions. He couldn't focus on anything long enough for it to surface; his train of thought kept changing platforms, turning corners, continuously moving in random, untraceable directions. What was he feeling?

_Excited, Overjoyed, Aroused, Wanting, Frustrated, Angry, Sad, Rejected, Concerned,_ But overall confused. This infuriating confusion. He was never confused. He always knew what to do. He knew what to do. He..

Had _no idea_ what to do.

Was this what it was like to be human? God, it was _terrible_. It was tiresome. It was...oh god...

He felt something stir in his chest. Emotion? No. But it had to be, it was weighing on him like a ton of bricks and he _hated_ it. He closed his eyes, sitting on the bed, closing his hands together and placing his thumbs on his lips. This was his thinking position. He needed to _think_.

This was a problem. Therefore, there was a solution. In order to reach a solution, it was necessary to analyse the problem.

It had started with the nightmare. That odd, slightly painful feeling Sherlock had felt in his chest as he watched John writhe in anguish. That had then provoked the infallible need to comfort. The hug. The contact. John's hand on his chest. John looking at him. The kiss. Wait_, rewind_.

John looking at him. That look in his eyes of – what? Need? Gratitude? _Sentiment._ Sherlock had already seen sentiment stare him straight in the face in the form of Irene but this was different. This was John. His loyal, stupid, but fantastically helpful John.

This was different because he'd felt it too.

His eyes snapped open. This _was _sentiment. _This_ was what sentiment felt like. Thinking, feeling, only seeing John. _Idiot._ He'd never needed to conduct this experiment at all. Because he experienced sentiment on a daily basis. Not as intensified as he was feeling it now, granted, but he felt it. Every time John made him laugh with a mindless, simple or sardonic comment. Proved useful. Helped without knowing or trying to. Existed. This wasn't all about sexual need at all. He shouldn't have provoked John. Because now – wherever he was – he was probably having a similar kind of internal conflict, if not worse due to him having been initiator.

This was the problem. But analysis had only worsened his agitation.

The solution was John. He needed to find him. Explain.

And...

He closed his eyes again as his mind drifted over to the sexual implications of what had happened. John _wanted_ him. His lips parted sub-consciously as he remembered the mechanics of the kiss. So _that _was why people did it. The lips were one of the most sensitive parts of the human body, he knew that, but _god_ when pressed against a matching pair – even John's slightly chapped ones, had almost driven him over the edge.

But the most sensational thing had been the brief yet complete loss of sense, of control, of reason. That kiss had awakened a part of Sherlock he'd never known existed, some kind of primal, basal demon, that cared only about _feeling_ and cast thought aside. And never in his entire life had he been able to just _stop_ like that. It was dangerous.

But _delicious_.

Was this what it was like to truly _let go_? He wanted it again. He wanted to stop again, and have his only thought be _John_. Oh, god, he wanted John. He absolutely needed him. He needed release, from these horrible, beautiful feelings that were building in his chest.

But wait, he couldn't. John wasn't here. Where was he?

Sherlock frowned. This wouldn't be easy. John was prone to self-hatred, he knew this, and despite having told him it was a fruitless endeavour that would only succeed in making John function less efficiently his words had never managed to penetrate far enough.

He'd left the villa, which was obvious. He'd heard the door slam, feet on the gravel. John would want to physically distance himself as far as possible. But for how long? He presumed at least an hour. Though it was cold, and he' d only have managed to find a shirt, probably his as that was the only one that had been left hanging downstairs. He felt a touch of something else as he imagined John in his shirt. What was _happening_ to him? It was like his entire molecular structure had re-aligned to produce this unstable, unpredictable mess.

He needed to find John. And soon.

* * *

><p>John lifted his head from his hands, glancing at his watch. He'd been out here for over an hour now. He had to stop dancing around the plan and actually get on with it. Partially because he was stuck outside in the open, in nothing but a too-long purple dress shirt and his boxers.<p>

Right. So he was going to walk back in there. Apologise. Blame it on sleepiness and how it had been Sarah in his nightmare that had made him want to...kiss him. Tell him it was okay, he understood that he had to move out. He'd organise plane tickets immediately afterwards, either fly that evening or the following morning. Then he'd look for a new flat. He felt a jolt of hurt, but tried to ignore it. This was his fault, so he needed to sort it out.

He stood from his rock, dusting his bare feet off. Suddenly, he heard a tiny whizzing noise, barely audible – something moving rapidly through the air, towards hi-

He tried to dodge out of the way but it was too late. He felt a tiny prick of pain in the back of his left shoulder, he craned his head to see a small, black dart. A dart?

He frowned. His vision began to go fuzzy. He dropped to his knees, eyes heavy. Before he passed out, he squinted, seeing a large, dark, silhouette against the morning sunrise approach from across the track. And then nothing. He didn't even feel his head hit the gravel.

* * *

><p>Sherlock kept tapping. Tapping helped him think, and passed the time. He hadn't brought any nicotine patches. Or cigarettes. Or the violin.<p>

He glanced at the time. Two hours since John had left. This was over the estimated time he'd set for John's return. This was most unusual.

He heard his phone bleep and jumped up. John!

But as he picked up the phone he realised that John had probably, no, definitely not taken his phone. He sighed, clicking through to read the new message.

_Oh where, oh where has my little dog gone?_

_Oh where, oh where can he be?_

_With his ears cut short and his tail cut long._

_Oh where, oh where can he be?_

_JM_

Nursery rhyme. Significance? Sherlock felt a wild stab of horror.

Moriarty had John.

Moriarty had John again.

He'd gotten so caught up in the events of the holiday and his stupid, stupid plan that he'd forgotten basic security measures. His fingers shook as he typed a response.

_Where are you._

_SH_

He shook, waiting. He knew Moriarty wouldn't kill John...yet. He was going to play with him first. And play with Sherlock. Oh hell. His phone bleeped again.

_Don't you worry, love._

_I'll be seeing you later._

_JM_

Of course. Moriarty was going to make him wait stretch it out as much as possible. And in that time, who knew what would happen? He had no course of action, no plan. Just blind, cold, panic replaced it. And still, all he could think about was John. This was the worst thing he'd ever done - he'd sacrificed his mind in search of sentiment, and now it was coming back to haunt him.

Sentiment was an attribute of the losing side. And now that side was him.

Sherlock sat back down, putting his head in his hands.

_John..._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Hope you enjoyed - this chapter is pretty short but i don't have much time at the moment! Thanks so much for reading :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Sorry about the delay guys - R&R :) I know this chapter may not be entirely scientifically correct, but I tried haha.**

* * *

><p>John groaned. His head was pounding, heavy. He straightened his torso up, slowly. There was a dull, relentless ache in his arms and shoulders. He tried to lift his hand to free it, massage it away perhaps, but he couldn't. His wrist met with a strong resistance. He cracked an eye open with difficulty, and, as his vision blurred slowly into a focus, his brows knitted in confusion. A large, empty room stared blankly back at him, a dirty, sandy wall opposite. There was one window, tiny, to the left of him. It was dark outside. Wait - it had been early morning out on the dirt track. Where was he? What was go-<p>

"Nice of you to join us, Johnny boy."

A cold stab of panic gripped him, as an unmistakeably familiar, soft and menacing voice came from a few metres behind him. He tried to move again, but couldn't. His wrists were bound. His feet were bound to the chair he was sitting on. His heart rocketed in his chest. He was trapped. Captive.

_Not again..._

He didn't say anything, but tried to crane his head round to look at his captors face. The back of his head was at once brutally gripped, shoved down, pulled back up again. He gasped out in pain.

"You really aren't very good at taking care of yourself, _are_ you?"

He gritted his teeth as Moriarty pulled his hair, yanking his head back further, as he leaned down to whisper in his ear.

"I do so _enjoy_ teasing your friend, Watson. And it just so happens that you are the perfect tool for doing so." He purred, releasing John's head from his grip.

John lifted his head, staring blankly ahead, trying to maintain his composure and dignity. He would not show weakness. Moriarty thrived on emotion. He breathed hard, through his nose.

"Don't feel like talking, today, do you? _Hmmm_?" Moriarty took slow steps round the chair to stand before him, the high-pitched Irish chatter piercing into John's skull.

"Weeellll. No matter." Jim stopped his pacing and leaned in to stare, blankly, into John's eyes.

"Because soon you won't be _able_ to." The criminal hissed, spit hitting John's forehead. The doctor felt his face drain of colour as the other man's pale expression twisted into a haunting, devilish grin.

"You are rather _cute, _aren't you_, _Doctor_ Watson_. I see why he keeps you around. Fun to _play_ with."

His emphasis on the word _play_ sent a shiver of fear down John's spine. He began to shake. He was going to die. He was never going to see 221B again. Let alone Sherlock.

Moriarty stretched out a pale, bony hand to finger at John's cheek, a smirk etched across his features. John flinched at his ice-cold touch, looking away, stopping eye contact. That was the first thing you were taught in training for captivity. Don't make eye contact. Don't let him get to you. His resolve was faltering rapidly as Jim continued to trail his finger down the side of his face, over his jawline, to his neck. John shuddered with disgust. Suddenly, the hand tightened around his throat and he choked, eyelids fluttering, mouth flying open as he tried to scrape some air back into his throat.

"Good night, Doctor. Sweet Dreams." John felt a needle press its way into his neck, and felt the offending hand leave his neck, before he hurtled back into blackness.

* * *

><p>Sherlock paced. He had been pacing for hours. No comprehensible, useful thoughts would come to him. The nearest town was small, full of potential hiding-places. He'd followed John's footprints down the dirt-track, but they ended abruptly halfway down the hill and the ground had clearly been swept over, halting any further tracking he could have attempted. He fisted the wall, growling in irritation. How could he have been so <em>stupid<em>? He'd practically walked John into Moriarty's spider web, and now there was no way, this being the second encounter, that Moriarty would let either of them go free.

But he wouldn't just kill John and come after Sherlock, no. Moriarty thrived on winning, breaking Sherlock's composure, and he'd honed in on one of the few, and potentially most effective, methods of doing so. Especially now, with his new-found _feelings_.

It was dark outside. It had been an entire day of waiting. Thinking. Hopeless, _useless_ thinking. This was purposeful, Moriarty was making him wait, frustrating him, so he'd be in a vulnerable state when the time came. And John, _god_. He fisted the wall, angrily. John was in danger. Hurt. Because of him.

He'd found cameras in the house. Littering the central rooms. Not the bedroom, however, so Moriarty didn't know the entirety of what had happened in the past few days. He'd destroyed them all at once. Moriarty couldn't see any of the precautions he'd taken for his arrival, else he and John would be at even more risk than normal. He'd inspected the pool as well. Moriarty was bound to use the pool. As a memento to their last encounter. He wouldn't have been able to resist. So Sherlock had anticipated this as well and taken all thinkable precautions there as well. But they would all be useless if John wasn't alive. If John wasn't –

Pain gripped his chest and he clutched at his shirt. These new feelings were to be the death of him.

His phone beeped and he was on it like a madman.

_Honey, I'm home!_

_JM_

His heart skipped a beat. It was time. He composed himself, which took almost all of his will, and made his way to the front door.

He undid the latch and opened it as calmly as he could muster. Moriarty stood there, suited, smiling, sunken eyes staring back at him in their own, unreadable way.

"Well hello! Not expecting me? Hah, mind if I come in?"

Sherlock gestured inside, and Jim walked in nonchalantly as if on a dinner date.

"Niiiiice place you've got here. Richard offered it to me once. Good man, Richard." Moriarty drawled, making his way into the sitting room and taking a seat in the armchair. "Really comes through when you need him. _Very_ reliable."

Sherlock gritted his teeth.

"It would appear so."

Jim smirked, apparently noting Sherlock's irritation.

"All very impromptu, this. Not like you to go gallivanting off in the Bermudan hills, is it, _Sherlock_?" He spat Sherlock's name like it was a curse-word.

"I wanted a break."

Moriarty cackled.

"A _break_?"

He crossed his legs.

"Two men just don't take a _break_ together, Sherlock. Even your silly little brain must know that."

Sherlock stiffened, turning away. Moriarty was pushing his buttons.

"He is very _sweet_ though. _Pretty_, too. I can't disagree with your taste."

Something dangerous in Sherlock set alight, and he rounded on the other man, grabbing him by his collar and lifting him up into his face.

"Cut. To. The. _Chase_."

Sherlock's lip curled with irritation as Moriarty's eyes grew wide and a grin began to grow on his face.

"Oh this is heartbreaking! To keep you two away from each other for so long seems so _cruel_."

"Where is he." Sherlock twisted the collar, restricting the space around Jim's neck.

"Careful." Moriarty's eyes flicked downwards and Sherlock saw a small, black, wire sneaking out of Jim's cuffed sleeve, leading down to a small, menacing button in the palm of his hand. "Wouldn't want my nice little bomb to go off now, would you? Seeing as John's nearby as well."

Sherlock heard a splash of water. He dropped the smaller man and swept out to the terrace. The pool had been lit up. There was something tied right in the centre. A raft? And...

_John._

He bolted down the steps. John was tied to the raft, eyes closed. Sleeping. He strode towards the water.

"Nuh-uh-uh! Not so fast!" Moriarty's voice echoed out from the villa doorway. Sherlock stopped. Something wasn't right.

"I wouldn't want to go in there if I were you."

The water. Sherlock picked up a stone and threw it in. The rock sizzled, fizzed, and then was no more.

"Hydrochloric acid, darling. _Extreeeeemely_ corrosive. Burns you from the outside in. Takes out your skin. Then your muscles. Then your organs."

And John was floating in a pool of it. Sherlock felt a stab of cold, heavy panic building in his gut.

"Why isn't it burning through the raft?"

"Oh its made out of titanium. It'll burn up eventually."

Moriarty's voice came close, too close to his ear. He shuddered in disgust.

"You remember what I said last time?"

Sherlock didn't reply.

"Oh go on. You remember."

Sherlock kept his mouth stiff. Shut.

Moriarty's face contorted horribly. "_SAY IT_." He hissed into Sherlock's face, shaking with frustration.

"You said you'd...burn the heart out of me."

"Yes. I did." He backed away, schooling his expression. "And as it turns out...it's lying on that raft over there."

"What do you mean." Sherlock said, carefully.

"Your heart, love. You have one. And it's alllll for _him_." Moriarty began to walk away, sitting on the steps of the patio. "It's beautiful, really. And I _love_ how in denial you are! _Adorable_."

Sherlock stared at the raft. It was suspended by tiny, metal ropes. Moriarty would shoot him if he tried to pull John towards the side.

"What do you want."

"You to throw yourself into that pool, right there. Nothing special."

"And if I do?"

"I'll cut the ropes and your little puppy dog there will walk free. Well, not until he's watched your tattered, fraying, corpse float its way around the pool a few times." Sherlock didn't miss the smile on Moriarty's face.

"And if I throw you in there?"

"_KABOOM_!" Moriarty roared happily. "You go up. John goes up. And we all live happily ever after. So take your pick. I'm happy to wait here as loooong as you like."

Right. So that was it. Moriarty wanted to watch him burn alive. Simple. He cast a look over at John on the raft. He saw bruises on his wrists, his ankles. Sore, red skin where the large rubber constraints were holding his unconscious form down. A surge of hatred went through him. He watched John carefully.

"So I- I can't get the raft to the side of the pool somehow. So he can climb out."

"NO. YOU _IDIOT_. Just get _ON_ with it."

"Perhaps if I moved _quickly_. Perhaps if I _cut_ the ropes somehow. _Just_ before the water touches him." Sherlock appeared to be pleading with himself.

Moriarty laughed.

"DO hurry up. When I said as long as you like, I _was_ just being polite. I'm a busy man, Holmes."

"I-I. Yes. Right."

Sherlock made his way over to the poolside. He shrugged off his coat, tossing it into the water. He watched as it burnt up in the bubbling water.

"There's no need to disrobe, it'll burn through anything."

"I know. I just wanted to see."

He began to unlace his shoes. He threw them into the corner of the pool. Then turned around swiftly and made his way back up the steps.

"Taking a run up, are we?"

Moriarty twisted round to face him on the step.

"I just...need a moment." Sherlock's voice hitched slightly on the sentence. Moriarty smirked, rising. Approaching. He stood opposite him.

"It's been a pleasure, Sherlock. Really has." He stepped close. "Pity you had to get in my way. Pity you had to be so very _annoying_. We might have worked well together."

Sherlock took a breath, maintaining his eye contact.

"Yes. Maybe we still can."

A flash of confusion graced Jim's face.

"Oh? Do go on."

They were standing so very close now. Moriarty's resolve was teetering.

"I've always admired you, Jim." He took a step forward now. Moriarty's eyebrow quirked.

"In fact. _More_ than that."

A frown began to form on the other man's face. Sherlock stepped forward again, this time placing his hand on the other man's forearm.

"John means nothing to me. He's human, like the rest of them. You're _different_."

He brought his face closer to Jim's, noses almost touching. He could feel Moriarty's breath on his face. He saw the other man's eyes widen slightly.

"What is this? What are you doing?" Moriarty's voice faltered slightly, uncertain.

"_This_, Jim?" Sherlock moved his face forward, mouth now close to the shell of Jim's ear. He felt the other man shiver, involuntarily.

"Isn't _this_ what you really want?"

And then, without hesitation, he darted forwards, pulling Moriarty towards him as he went, nipping at the other man's earlobe, growling into his ear. He felt Moriarty tremble against him. Perfect.

Moriarty jumped away, clutching the side of his head as if he'd been hit.

"The _fuck_-"

"Come now, Jim. Don't tell me it's that easy to get your guard down?"

Suddenly, realisation dawned on the consulting criminal and he eyed Sherlock's hand, where a penknife had emerged. He was holding the black wire of Moriarty's handset in the other. Jim's face contorted into rage.

"No _matter, _Sherlock. Your friend there is _still_ in the middle of the pool, it doesn't _matter_. If you threaten me I have a codeword. My men are waiting!"

Suddenly a hand flew over the criminal's mouth and another round his shoulders, holding him tight. Sherlock smirked, walking over and cutting the wire to Moriarty's earpiece. It fell to the floor, useless. Moriarty's eyes were wide with rage, he tried to shake John off him but to no avail. John removed his hand from the other man's mouth.

"_HOW._" Jim screamed, spitting at Sherlock almost rabidly.

"Simple, really. John came round from the drug as you were explaining yourself, just playing dead – weren't you? I saw your breathing from a mile off." John grunted in agreement, forcing the writhing criminal down to the ground.

"If you were paying _attention_, you'd have seen that I threw my coat into the water first. That coat held my phone, a button on which I pressed to emit a small electrical current as it fell in."

Jim's face was red with anger, humiliation. He breathed hard, glaring at Sherlock.

"That current frayed the metal ropes, and the raft, in part, which loosened John's constraints. John himself was safe because of those silly rubber bands around his arms and legs – that's elementary stuff, Jim. The momentum of the shoe then pushed the raft to the poolside so John could climb out _quickly_, as I'd instructed him before, unharmed before the raft collapsed through. Simple, really."

"YOU DIDN'T INSTRUC-"

"Yes I did, don't you remember?" Sherlock put on a mocking whine. "_Perhaps if I moved quickly! Perhaps if I cut the ropes somehow! _Surprised you missed that."

Jim let out a scream of anger and managed to beat his way out of John's grip. Before he could get to Sherlock, however, John had stepped out of the way and Sherlock administered a strong push to the other man's torso. He stumbled back, falling into the pool, a face of panic etched across his pale face before he fell into the water. He splashed around frantically as blood began to colour the blue water a menacing pink. His screams subsided, and he slowly began to stop moving. The water fizzed, red, violent, around him.

Sherlock didn't watch. Instead, he buried his face into the top of John's head, holding him close. Appreciating him. Keeping him there. _Safe_.

After a long moment, John murmured a muffled "Sh-sherlock. Is he-" into the detective's chest. John didn't turn around. Sherlock looked up for him, and then nodded his confirmation.

"What now? His men-"

"We'll go, now. We're both wearing dark clothes, we'll be able to sneak past his men if we go soon, they'll catch on in a few minutes though. Come on."

"But Sherlock – we need to-"

"Leave discussion for later John, we're not safe yet."

And with that, Sherlock pulled his living, breathing, _safe _partner behind him as he made his way down the hill, and into the wilderness.


	6. Chapter 6

John stumbled, his legs buckling for the sixth time in five minutes. They had been walking for hours, Sherlock's hand grasping his wrist, pushing him on relentlessly as if their pursuers had been right behind them. In addition to his heavy exhaustion, he was still fairly sure that he was still experiencing the effects of Moriarty's sedatives.

"Sh-" He tried to gasp the other mans name

"Not now, John, we need to clear just a few more-"

"Sherlock _STOP_. We're miles away. If they knew where we were they would have found us by now."

Wrestling his arm from the detective's vice-grip, John planted himself defiantly on a nearby boulder. He was shivering. Sherlock, in his usual tactful way, had also managed to overlook the fact that despite his being fully dressed and coated-up, John was still dressed in yesterday's pyjamas. He shuddered, as the Bermudan night air sent chills up his spine.

Sherlock frowned, but seemed to consent to the rest stop. Even he was human. He took a seat on the ground, pursing his lips.

"I suppose."

John blinked. He hadn't had time to think over what had happened hours before, not really. It had all happened so fast. The pool, the ropes – _Moriarty_.

"I can't believe he's dead, Sherlock."

John's mouth moved seconds after he'd even thought it.

"Why not? You watched him die." Sherlock's voice was cool, even, regardless of how long they'd been striding across the Bermudan countryside.

"It's not that – I _know_ he's dead." John sighed, glancing up at the sky, where a sea of stars had appeared over the course of their journey. "It's just like – well – he was like this big cloud over everything, you know? We'd be okay, and everything, but he'd still be there."

"So you wanted him dead?"

"Yes, well, no – only in that he threatened our-" John trailed off. What had he wanted to say?

"Peace and quiet."

"Yeah - yeah I guess that's what I mean. Ignore me. I'm probably still drugged."

"If you were still drugged, I'd have had to carry you."

"Shut up."

John huffed, pulling the flimsy fabric of his dressing gown closer to his body.

"We should make camp soon."

"I was afraid this would happen."

John glanced at his flatmate. The detective looked very out of his depth, surrounded by dense bushes, dirt, and not even a coffee machine in sight. John supposed it would be his job to make the shelter. Drawing on the little survival skills he could remember from Afghanistan, he stood from his perch, examining the bush beside him.

"I think if we could lace some of these thin branches together, attach them to that tree there – and sort of bend them in a kind of arch – we'd probably be fine, it looks like it's going to be a clear night anyway. As for foo-"

A noise behind him startled him from his thought process, and he turned round to see Sherlock wrestling with a small, fluorescent pop-up tent.

"Yes, John. Very useful in Afghanistan I'm sure, but I refuse to sleep in the dirt. Now help me peg this thing down."

"Where did you even-"

"There's a reason I like wearing my coat, John. Big pockets."

As he pegged down the ropes, and Sherlock – or Mary Poppins – continued to rifle around in his trench coat, John realised that they'd be sleeping next to each other in _very _close conditions this time, and he winced as images from the night before flooded his thoughts and his cheeks burnt a whole new shade of red. Sleeping next to each other was what had caused all of this in the first place. Put them both in danger. And it was a mystery as to how Sherlock had overlooked this considering how violated he must have felt.

"Aha!"

John looked up, to see that Sherlock had unearthed what looked like a mass of bread, jam and cling-film from his never-ending pockets.

"You made _sandwiches_?!"

"I was bored. Moriarty took too long."

"You – I – what?! Did you know we'd end up out here?"

"Come _on_, John. Moriarty wasn't exactly going to let us skip back inside, have a nice cup of tea and a biscuit and go to bed, was he?"

What Sherlock called sandwiches, John called a pile of bread, butter and what he _hoped _was jam. He nevertheless thanked him for his efforts and dug in, greedily, whilst his flatmate barely took one bite. The man's silence made the ex-soldier uncomfortable, so he busied himself in creating a makeshift fire, whilst the other man sat cross-legged, like a child, his fingers pressing hard on his lips. Once the embers had begun to surface, John sat back and regarded him carefully. Did he still feel awkward about the other night? Were they just going to forget about it? Or would he ask John to move out? A sick feeling replaced the hunger in John's stomach as he entertained these thoughts, and he decided he couldn't eat anymore, so he wrapped the sandwiches up and put them in the tent.

"Sherlock, could I borrow your coat?"

It was the first time they'd spoken to each other in almost half an hour. At Baker Street, this wouldn't have been a problem, they'd spent hours in silence before. But to John this silence seemed uncomfortable, tense and never-ending. He'd decided that all he could do was go to sleep.

"What for?"  
>Sherlock didn't look up from his reverie; he continued to observe the flames, his eyes flashing as they flickered back and forth under his relentless gaze. John couldn't help but take in the brilliance of the detective's appearance, despite being haggard and unkempt, there was something feral, animalistic in his composure that rendered John speechless. Remembering that he had to answer and not entertain thoughts like this anymore, he grunted a response.<p>

"Duvet."

Sherlock closed his eyes. Opened them. Sighed.

"You're not sleeping outside, John."

A blush made its way onto the doctor's cheeks.

"And why not?"

"Because your vulnerable state makes you prone to pneumonia and illness without at least a moderate level of heat, and I also do not want to give you my coat."

John began to construct an angry retort, but Sherlock's next utterance stopped him in his tracks.

"Additionally, I don't want you to."

A familiar jittery feeling began to work its way through John's stomach as the detective turned his fiery gaze towards him, but he fought to keep it down.

"But-"

"I'm not letting you out of my sight. Not after today."

Trying to keep his stomach from churning, John rose to his feet indignantly, panicking. He couldn't sleep next to Sherlock again, not after what had happened before. Why was Sherlock okay with this?

"Hey, look, I might have been held captive twice, now, but I'm not a child – you can't-"

"No, I can't. But I want to. And I would like you to comply. I'm going to bed."

The detective left his perch, and unzipped the tent, climbing in and removing his coat defiantly.

"Come."

John coloured at the connotations behind that single, sultry word. Sherlock's demanding tone was sending his hormones flying in all the wrong places. Did the detective have any idea what he was doing to him? He would have to lie with his back to Sherlock, and close his eyes, and think of England, tea, Mrs Hudson. Concentrate on anything other than the man next to him. It would be like during war, he mused, when they trained themselves not to react to the bombs and gunfire in their sleep, no matter how close they fell. He sighed, dousing the fire and climbing in. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

><p>Sherlock watched the flames. He was thinking. He'd been thinking all day with the exception of Moriarty's visitation, but he still needed to think. Re-assess.<p>

Never in his life had he felt so rattled. His mind was racing. Well, more than the usual furtiveness of his neural sphere. Thoughts were darting backwards and forwards, up and down, circling around one, constant core. John. He glanced at the chewing man across the fire, and could still barely believe how thinly he'd escaped losing him. He was never letting his guard down again. Ever.

Regardless of Moriarty's death, he still had enemies in all kinds of places, enemies that would kidnap and take hostage anyone who they knew could get to him. And this had never been an issue before, because people were disposable. But John wasn't people. Every centimetre of Sherlock's being ached to be close to him, to physically hold him so close that perhaps they might mesh together. John might become a part of him and be under his careful eye everywhere he went. These feelings were so frivolous, illogical, illegal. But Sherlock could do nothing in his power to suppress them. This experiment had gone too far.

John was looking at him now, he could feel the man's gaze burning into the side of his skull. No doubt John was convinced of his revulsion, and this was confirmed when he asked about sleeping spaces. Sherlock had drafted a counter-argument in seconds, but then a small part of him decided to take over his mouth, and before he could stop himself, he'd told the other man exactly what he wanted. Betrayed exactly how he felt.

He moved quickly into the tent to avoid a full confrontation. That was something that would take far more planning. For now, he just wanted to sleep. Sleep next to John. As he removed his coat, a familiar tension began to build in the pit of his stomach. He groaned inwardly as he realised that his body was no doubt going to betray him.

"Come."

The deer-caught-in-the-headlights look did nothing to settle Sherlock's rising libido. Was this what others experienced whenever they climbed into bed next to their significant other? Because the lust was beginning to tire him out, the tension ever more frustrating, especially when he knew exactly what he needed to satisfy it. But then, it occurred to him that he still had no idea how to go about it. John would have to initiate. Or would he?

"Fine then. Move over." The soldier had complied with little hesitation, though his intentional avoidance of Sherlock's gaze betrayed the reason why.

"John."

Sherlock's heart fluttered. He frowned, he hadn't felt nerves like this since his days at school.

"Sherlock?"

Their eyes met.

"Body heat."

"Pardon?"

"In order to stay warm, we will have to share body heat. I am aware of your feelings about this particular matter but you know as well as I do that it is the best option."

John looked away, reddening and took a deep breath. Sherlock knew what was coming.

"It's – um – it's fine with me, I mean, if you'd like me to move out of Baker Street. When we get home, that is."

"And why would I like that?"

"You know why."

"I do not."

"Because I crossed a line the other night that I felt jeopardized th-"

"Kissing me, you mean."

John winced, crossing his arms and pressing himself further away into the side of the small tent space. Sherlock wished he could know an inkling of the internal turmoil that John was experiencing. The detective sighed, agitatedly. He knew that John would take some persuading to convince him to rationalise, but this required him to explicitly _say_ what he felt and what he wanted and this was never an exercise he found enjoyable. Particularly on the subject of sentiment, a subject he was all round unfamiliar in. But it would have come to this anyway.

"Yes. That. So I'll start looking at-"

"No you won't."

"Pardon?"

John's eyes snapped up to meet Sherlock's, and the detective tried to pour his desires into the eye contact, communicating in thought with the eloquence that he lacked in speech.

"You're not moving out. You didn't cross a line."

John was wide-eyed, completely stunned. Shaking.

"Yes I did – I practically forc-"

"No, you didn't. It was an experiment."

Sherlock regretted those words the minute they had left his mouth.

"_What._"

"Not like that, John. I planted subliminal and conscious suggestions here and there, I observed, and then you reciprocated. You did not, as it were, _force_ yourself upon me."

Immediately, the soldier's fist connected with his cheek, and the detective almost ripped the side of the tent with the power of his fall.

"You. Complete. Bastard. I _knew_ it! STOP playing tricks with me. I am _not _your guinea pig. You cannot play with people's feelings like that!"

He grabbed Sherlock by the collar now, his eyes wild with rage.

"John, will you LISTEN. I wanted to know-"

"What could you POSSIBLY want to know? How much of a dick you could make me look? Here I am going through this complete and utter internal crisis, not to mention ALMOST GETTING KILLED."

Sherlock felt a stab of something slice through his chest. Hurt. Pain. Guilt?

"I didn't mean – I wanted you t-"

"To dance for you? Oh I'm sure it was pretty fucking amusing."

"John. Shut UP. Listen to me. I'm not good at this!"

John opened his mouth to shout again, so Sherlock did the most logical thing he could physically do, and silenced his flatmate not with words, but with his mouth. John tensed, and so did Sherlock. The noises of resistance drew to a stop, the fists on his collar softened, as Sherlock slowly began to mirror what John had shown him before; the gentle pressing, opening and closing motions that he'd enjoyed so much. His hand rested uncertainly on John's shoulder. The nerves in his stomach quickly replaced themselves with heat, unbearable heat, as John slowly began to respond, pulling the detective closer. But not close enough. Suddenly, John pushed forcefully on the detective's chest, breaking the contact abruptly, and the glare was back, though his eyes were now glazed over, his breathing rough, his body trembling with a mixture of rage and arousal and nerves.

"What is _this_. What is going on."

"This is what I wanted John. _This_. Not to reach some scientific conclusion and tuck it away in a record book as you are no doubt assuming. Sentiment. I wanted to experience sentiment. In all senses of the word. And I chose you because I felt…you were a…you might be a – that is –"

Sherlock paused to allow his frenzied thoughts time to gather themselves

"The desires were already in your head, as were mine, which is what allowed the suggestions to work so effectively. And sentiment, unfortunately, was what allowed me to let you walk right into Jim's spider web."

John was stunned. His breathing was hard, now. His gaze had softened, though his eyes still held an element of steely, determined disbelief.

"You want this?"

"Yes."

"So – what – a one night stand? And then we go back to normal?"

"I don't know! Jesus, John, I didn't plan for this to happen, let alone how it would all pan out! All I know is that…I..." Sherlock cringed. "I want you now. Right now. But-"

He tried to ignore John's heavy breathing, feeling hot and uncomfortable under his watchful eye.

"I can't – I don't –" Sherlock groaned with the emotional exertion. This was why he chose not to feel. It was far too much work.

"So what you're saying is that you might want more?"

"Yes. And in addition to that, I am not yet capable of fulfilling what it is I desire, so I would rather you complied."

"You're asking me if I want you too."

"Not in so many words."

John seemed to be struggling under the conflict that was no doubt clashing within his head.

"You are free to move out of Baker Street, however, if you feel that this situation would compromise your personal comfort."

Somehow, John had moved closer in the space of their argument, so that in the darkness, Sherlock could feel the other man's breath on his face. His stomach turned continually, his abdomen throbbed with anticipation, his body was tense with fright and desire, Sherlock had lost all physical control and was now completely in John's power.

"Have you – have you ever done anything like this before? Felt like this?"

"No, John. I thought I made that clear. You are the first."

His voice came out a lot weaker than he'd intended. So close. Maddeningly close.

"This isn't part of an experiment."

"No John. The decision is completely yours."

Sherlock shivered as a strong, military hand began to trail its way up his arm. Even in the semi-darkness, Sherlock could see the ex-soldier's brow knit together in deep concentration, self-restraint? His eyes flicked down and inhaled slightly when he saw the formidable tent that had appeared quite evidently in the soldier's boxer shorts. He didn't have to look to know that this mirrored his own. Jesus, this was infuriating. And the hand on his neck was driving him closer to the edge.

John's next words were barely a whisper.

"What do you want me to do, Sherlock?"

Something about the breathy way John had said his name was the last straw. Sherlock launched himself onto the doctor's lips, trying desperately to alleviate the tension that was so hot and heavy between them. The contact caused both men to groan wantonly, as the pent-up desire reached its peak and exploded inside of them. Sherlock clutched helplessly at John's shirt, trying hard to decipher the other man's mode of action whilst trying so desperately to calculate his own. John leant into him, pushing him down into the base of the tent. Strong hands slipped around his waist, up his back, over his chest and stomach, and he realised that he'd never been touched this way by anyone, and it felt good. Overwhelmingly good. Reflexively, his back arched up and he gasped, louder than he'd intended. John stopped his ministrations, to Sherlock's alarm.

"Sorry – sorry, is this too fast for you?" John whispered.

Sherlock knew that the doctor was genuinely concerned, but he couldn't help but detect a certain hint of amusement.

"I – no – I just – the only people who touch – who I let touch me – are Mycroft and you. It's not unreasonable. I am a sociopath; really it's remarkable that I'm letting you do this at all."

"So, wait, let me get this straight – you've never even, well, kissed anyone? Fooled around? You went through puberty didn't you?"

"A sociopathic puberty, yes. I am told I was even less sociable than I am now." The consultant's voice wavered with emotion. Sherlock tried hard not to launch himself at the other man, his body was dying for more contact. He couldn't believe he'd gone this long without it.

"So, how sensitive are you to touch, exactly?" John's voice was low, and Sherlock watched the soldier's eyes flicker over his body.

"How do you mean, like on a sca-ah-!" John had pulled him closer, and was now slipping a hand cautiously underneath his shirt. Sherlock shivered, making an involuntary noise in the base of his throat, arching his chest into the other man's. John's hand moved slowly further up, caressing his shoulder blades, his neck, the small of his back. Sherlock tried to control the gasps that were threatening to escape, as heat pooled slowly in his groin and spread throughout the rest of him like wildfire. Suddenly, John dove forward and his mouth made contact with the sensitive skin at the base of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock clutched harder on the back of John's shirt, groaning into his ear as the doctor made a slow trail over his collarbone.

Sherlock's mind couldn't slow down, he couldn't concentrate on anything. Only the heavy breathing, the moans, the caresses, the kisses, the hands and the touching and-

"Ah! J-John." The ex-soldier's tongue had flicked over the head of one of his nipples, and was now teasing it between his teeth. Sherlock made a whimpering noise he had previously assumed he was incapable of, and the doctor's responsive growl confirmed his approval. And his hands – god, his _hands_ – were moving ever lower, tracing his prominent hipbones and forcing his abdomen to jerk upwards. The strong fingers, the rough calluses, made it impossible to focus on anything else. And then, suddenly, his shorts were being ripped downwards, exposing – _christ_ – his hot, pulsing member to the cold night air. Sherlock recoiled, flushing with embarrassment. No one had ever caused such an intense physical reaction in him before. No one had seen him like this. No one but John, beautiful, wonderful John.

The doctor's hands were circling the forbidden area, like a panther stalking its prey, making slow, tortuous circles on Sherlock's lower stomach. Sherlock faced him now, vulnerable, wide-eyed, exhilarated, and could see the doubt etched across his face.

"Are you sure you want to go this far, Sherlock?" John breathed, their eyes locked. "We can stop now, if-if that's what you want. If you're not ready."

Sherlock swallowed, heart beating and truly afraid for one of the first times in his life. But the doctor's expression fortified the decision in his head. "Yes." He croaked, barely a whisper, but determined all the same.

John's hand made a slow descent, and brushed him in a place that no one had ever ventured. The gentle touch, the harsh, heavy breathing, sent chills down his spine, and sweat to his brow. John, seeing no protest, closed his hand around Sherlock's cock, and began to apply more pressure. The effect was immediate. Sherlock's head fell back, as waves of satisfied arousal began to thread throughout him, moaning louder than before, his hips beginning to move in tandem with the doctor's ministrations. The spring inside him was winding, coiling, making his legs tremble with uncontained pleasure. He needed more.

"John, p-please." He begged, as the doctor's mouth made quick work of his neck, the spare hand continuing to tease his chest, creating a complete overload of sensation. The motions became less tender, and more passionate, hard, urgent and wanton. The detective writhed beneath him, submitting to pleasure and losing his inhibitions as he slowly began to reach his end. John's hand moved harder, faster until he was driven to the very edge, a sweaty, moaning, catastrophic mess.

"Oh-OH GOD, JOHN!"

Sherlock yelled the doctor's name, finally reaching his orgasm, as thick waves of pleasure coursed unbearably through him like electricity, his body convulsing violently under the new, glorious sensation. He sank to the tent floor, panting, basking in a beautiful, overwhelming afterglow. When he opened his eyes, and his vision swam back into focus, he saw the doctor's face creasing into an exhausted, satisfied smile. The realisation of what had just occurred, how exposed he was and how much he'd let go came searing back into his mind and he reddened immediately.

"I – John – I'm sorry – I've never-"

"No, Sherlock. Don't worry – you were…well…" The doctor coloured. "Amazing."

Sherlock glanced down to see the doctor's shorts barely hiding a very prominent bulge. Did he – should he –

John followed his glance and shook his head, smiling.

"I think that's probably enough, for now at least."

He took one of the detective's hands, and brought it to his mouth. Sherlock moved, slowly, cautiously and pressed his lips on the doctor's mouth. They shared a final, tender kiss, resolved to deal with the repercussions in the morning, and lay down, exhausted, to sleep.


End file.
